


Three Seasons of Falling "Off-Screen" Scene: In Mycroft's Office

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Post Reichenbach, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:26:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An off-screen scene from Three Seasons of Falling in which Mycroft invites Lestrade to his office to let the Yarder in on the secret that Sherlock is not, in fact, dead. Needless to say, Lestrade has a few drinks after this reveal. (TSoF: http://archiveofourown.org/works/373609/)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Seasons of Falling "Off-Screen" Scene: In Mycroft's Office

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, the subtitle sucks. Sorry, I haven't written smut in a while. Sorry, I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING HERE.

Lestrade looked at his watch in the dim light of Mycroft’s office. “My god, is that really the time?” He rubbed his eyes. “I should get home.” He stood and swayed.

Mycroft set his half-full glass on the end table beside Lestrade’s empty one. “Apologies. I may have poured one too many,” he said with thinly veiled amusement.

“It’s all right. I’ve been far worse off than this.” Lestrade’s words were thick and slow from the combination head rush and alcohol. He’d initially declined Mycroft’s offer of brandy, but as soon as he found out Sherlock was alive he took a large gulp from the glass Mycroft had poured for him anyway.

“Shall I call you a cab?” Mycroft rose and half turned towards his desk before Lestrade waved away the offer.

“No, no. I’ll manage just fine. Goodnight, Mycroft. Thanks for the drinks.” He managed two and a half steps before vertigo took hold again.

Mycroft caught Lestrade by the upper arm and led him back into his chair. “I think I’ll call you that cab.”

“Maybe, yeah.” Lestrade leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “You know, you’re not as bad as Sherlock made you out to be.”

“He would make me out to be the villain, wouldn’t he?” Mycroft mused.

“Well, not a villain. Just more of a prick than he is.”

Mycroft chuckled and Lestrade opened his eyes. Mycroft was leaning against his desk with his ankles crossed and his hands on the wood, watching Lestrade.

“Did you call for a cab?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said.

“Blimey, I didn’t even hear it. I must have dozed off for a moment.”

“Must have. I’m curious, Greg, how do you see me apart from my brother?”

Lestrade waved a finger. “Well for one, Sherlock never would have called me a cab.” He let his hand fall lifeless onto the armchair. “You’re just different.” He lifted himself from the chair and made a few unsteady steps to the window. He leaned against the frame and looked blearily down at London’s lights. “Sherlock never cares if what he says offends people. Well, except for John of course. But it’s not like he doesn’t know—he knows exactly how people work. He just doesn’t care. Sometimes I think he intentionally says things to get people worked up. Whereas you,” he turned and found Mycroft still watching him intently.

“Yes?” Mycroft said after a long silence.

“What? Oh, right. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve got the same ego and arrogance as Sherlock, but you actually think about how you word things to at least seem polite.”

“How kind of you.”

“Sorry.” Lestrade put his fingers to his forehead. “That was rude. Guess I’m not much better than Sherlock, eh?”

Mycroft stood and walked slowly over to Lestrade. “Oh, I’m sure it’s the alcohol talking.” He stopped by the window. “The thing you must understand about my brother, and about me, is that it isn’t just ego.” Lestrade raised a brow. “It’s a fact that we possess a higher intellect than most of the world’s population. In a way, demeaning others makes us more accessible.”

Lestrade laughed. “You’ve also got a more roundabout way of telling someone they’re an idiot.”

“On the contrary,” Mycroft said and placed a hand on Lestrade’s shoulder, “I’m well aware of your aptitude. To us, everyone is an imbecile; but Sherlock didn’t get you the position of Detective Inspector.”

“Thanks,” Lestrade said, more than a little uncertain. “Don’t know why you’re saying it, but thanks.”

“But don’t you?” Mycroft whispered in his ear.

It took Lestrade’s brain a moment to register that Mycroft’s hand had slipped down his shoulder to his low back. He stared blearily at the faded reflection in the window, Mycroft hovering behind him.

“My brother might be naïve in some areas, but we are still very human,” Mycroft said, his voice quiet. His fingers slid under the waistband of Lestrade’s trousers and around to the belt buckle. He undid the buckle, button, zipper, and slid his hands to Lestrade’s hips, fingers finding their way below his pants. Mycroft pushed it all down until it fell to the floor. He went to unzip his own trousers.

Lestrade couldn’t stop staring at himself in the window, standing half-naked above London. What was going on? He knew exactly what, but he didn’t mind. Why in god’s name didn’t he mind? He was married, for Christ’s sake. Cheating was his wife’s territory. And cheating with men. But this was happening, this was definitely happening, and Lestrade wasn’t minding. Why wasn’t he minding it?

Mycroft’s hand on his ass made Lestrade start. Mycroft leaned close to his ear. “All you have to say is ‘stop,’” he breathed.

Lestrade didn’t say anything, and he forced his body to relax. He felt Mycroft touching him, on him, against him, and with a sharp pain in him. His entire body seized and he leaned his hands against the glass. Mycroft brought his mouth to Lestrade’s neck, his lips barely brushing Lestrade’s skin, and the distraction was just enough for Mycroft to push further inside. A groan escaped Lestrade’s throat and he clenched his eyes shut. His own cock was twitching from the stimulus. Resting his weight on one hand braced against the window, Lestrade started to beat off as Mycroft began thrusting against him.

There was nothing sentimental about it. Mycroft gripped Lestrade’s hips, and after the initial entry his face was nowhere near Lestrade’s. It was just a steady drum, building in momentum and slowly growing erratic.

Lestrade’s breath kept catching in his throat; Mycroft was causing almost as much pain as pleasure. He had to keep rubbing himself to tip the scale enough to keep going. He wondered if the glass would break, imagined toppling headfirst into London, Mycroft still inside of him. Could people see them from down there? Was anyone looking? Don’t look up.

Lestrade came first, ejaculate splattering on the window. He set his jaw, put both hands on the glass again, his body still twitching, until Mycroft tugged at Lestrade’s hips with his hardest thrust, and finished. Lestrade could, for a moment, feel Mycroft’s chest heaving just above his back.

Then Mycroft pulled out and away. He went over to the bin by his desk, disposed of the condom Lestrade hadn’t even noticed, wiped his hands and his cock with a few tissues, and zipped back up.

“There’s a private toilet through there,” Mycroft said, pointing to a door at the end of the room. “I’ll call you that cab.” He sat down at his desk and pulled his phone towards him.

Lestrade didn’t move for a moment, mesmerized and feeling more than a little surreal. He watched his semen drip down the glass. Don’t look up. At least he moved and walked awkwardly and painfully to the toilet to inspect the damage.


End file.
